


Inked

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Masturbation, Tattoos, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a mad crush on Hannibal the tattoo artist basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

**Author's Note:**

> Thank yous to the most wonderful and talented [LoneWombatKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewombatking/pseuds/lonewombatking) and [FerventRabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit) for editing and encouraging and inspiring.

“C’mon Graham, I’ve heard so much about this place.” Beverly pauses, points towards the small row of shops in front of them. Will squints, makes out an overpriced ramen restaurant and a bakery named “Dangerously Delicious.”

“You want pie?”

“Smart-ass. Look again. We’re not leaving until we take a peek.”

“Beverly,” he groans. “Too drunk for this.” But she’s already three steps ahead of him, heading toward an unmarked door he hadn’t noticed before. Even the windows above the door are blacked out. 

He hesitates, a thread of cogent thought surfacing. “What is this place?”

“Best tattoos in DC,” Beverly says over her shoulder. “You need to read DCist more often.”

Alcohol pitches and swirls uneasily in his stomach like the tide of the sea. “We’re not getting...” Bev grabs his arm before he can protest, tugging him forward so they go into the shop together. The door shuts heavily behind them. 

Will is not sure what he’d expected a tattoo parlor to look like, but it isn’t this.

For one thing, everything is polished and gleaming. If he touches anything, he’s pretty sure he’ll smudge it. The four walls of the small space are vividly crimson, and the ceiling is adorned with several crystal chandeliers in one long, ostentatious row. At the back corner of the shop, behind a thick and shiny layer of glass with black curtain gathered on one side, there’s a long white table. A young woman is lying on her chest, her head turned away from him. A man is bent over her, and dark hair obscures the profile of his face. He’s working on the small of the woman’s back, drawing something with a large, metal tattoo gun. On closer inspection though, the machine looks more like an engine, and less like a gun. 

The man doesn’t look a typical tattoo artist either. His shirt isn’t ratty and torn or covered with the name of an obscure rock band. In general, there’s something about his presence that is just as clean and tidy as his shop. His black button-up shirt is pressed and professional, though the sleeves are rolled up. He wears blue nitrite gloves with drying streaks of blood and ink. The image reminds Will of crime scenes or doctors, not tattooing. Still, with surgical precision, the man is utterly focused on the woman below him. There’s a coiled intensity in the lines of his back and his arms and, for one split second, Will wishes he would _just_ turn around. 

Shifting uneasily, Will toes one sneaker across the tiled floor. It squeaks and Will winces, unable to help but notice how the tattoo artist’s shoulders tense at the sound, hearing Will even over the loud buzz of the tattoo machine. The man doesn’t turn to look at him, just tilts his head ever so subtly in Will’s direction. With that singular gesture, Will is left feeling like a hapless rabbit who has stumbled into a fox’s den.

He wants to leave now. 

Beverly only grips his arm with more excitement. “This is so cool,” she says. 

“I’m too drunk for this Bev,” Will repeats, his voice in a low whisper. He gets the feeling the artist can hear every word. “ _We’re_ too drunk for this.”

“Shut it, Graham,” Bev mock whispers back, several decibels louder. “I want a tattoo. Like a butterfly or something. Or a wicked looking sword. Ooh, maybe we should get BFF tattoos.” 

In desperation, Will grabs two black binders from the empty front desk, corralling Bev to a corner, out of view of the tattoo artist. 

Inside the binders are pages and pages of drawings of strange creatures, dragons, angels and demons, and other mythological figures that distract them both for a while. Most of the images are hand-drawn, but there are a few photos in there too, of happy, posh-dressed clients that look vaguely familiar from the news-- a famous chef, a sculptor, a jazz musician, a veritable who’s who of Washingtonians. Each of the photos are signed, with adoring notes to Hannibal Lecter. Beverly starts telling him a good story about a classmate of theirs, Brian Zeller, and his, Bev’s emphasis: ASS tattoo. They barely notice the woman who was being tattooed earlier leave the shop, or the quiet steps that follow. 

“Pardon me.” 

Will startles at the courteous and thickly accented voice. Clenching the edge of the binder, he steels himself before glancing up. 

The tattoo artist, now that Will can see his face, is as appealing from the front as he was from the back. From behind the safety of his glasses, Will takes in the man’s intense brown eyes framed by straight and dark hair, and the full, wide mouth set off by the impossibly chiseled jaw. He’s older, maybe in his early or mid thirties. The smallest of crow’s feet edge the corners of his eyes. Will feels—unexpected—a prickle of heat against his chest and arms that only worsens the more he avoids the man’s gaze.

Beverly, on the other hand, is unflappable. She grins confidently at the man, overflowing with whiskey-fueled courage. “Hi,” she chirps. 

The man inclines his head, his expression bemused. “I am Hannibal Lecter,” he says smoothly. “How may I help you?”

“Well, we’re interested in tattoos,” Beverly replies, scrunching her forehead. “The whole process and everything. I’ve been thinking about getting one.”

“I see. In that quest, I am certain I can assist,” Hannibal says, then pauses for effect. “I believe I missed your names.”

“I’m Beverly Katz,” Beverly says easily. She shakes Hannibal’s hand. When Will doesn’t speak, she nudges him but speaks for him anyway, an old pro at easing Will into social situations. “This is Will Graham.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintances,” Hannibal says coolly. Will realizes he has to let the man close and his face burns as their fingers brush, palms pressed together briefly before separating. Like his touch, Will feels Hannibal’s attention cling even after they’ve shaken hands. His eyes drift from Will’s unruly hair, down to his jean-clad legs to the scuffed sneakers whose squeaking had gotten his attention earlier. 

“So, what do we have to do to get a tattoo? Is there a waiting list?” Bev asks curiously. “I mean, shit, two. There’s two of us. So, two tattoos.” For emphasis, she gestures between Will and herself. Will keeps his eyes down. 

“And what kind of tattoos are you interested in?” Hannibal asks with a sort of forced patience. 

“Oh, hmm, just like ... normal stuff,” Beverly replies. “Nothing too weird. Life is already weird enough, y’know?”

“I see.” Hannibal’s dark gaze falls on Will. “And you? Have you thought of what you would like? Something _normal_ as well? An infinity symbol, or a dream catcher, perhaps?”

“Tasteless,” Will snorts before he can stop himself. Hannibal’s eyes widen. He seems as taken aback by Will’s derision as Will is, and the surprise makes him bold. “Not to mention the cultural appropriation.”

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Hannibal asks. He looks curious and not offended. 

Will swallows, feeling the weight of both Beverly and Hannibal’s stares. 

Enter exhibit one of why he doesn’t like to talk to strangers. 

“My thoughts are often not tasty,” he admits. 

Hannibal tilts his head again in that slight way. “Perhaps something less conventional for you, then.”

 _Conventional._ The word ricochets like broken glass. Visuals swirl in his brain, a veritable montage of dark things he’s imagined and dreamed. Somehow, Hannibal’s voice conjures them. Like faraway whispers, the sound strikes its mark like the swing of an axe to a tree. Wordlessly, he shakes his head. 

Hannibal’s eyes narrow. 

“Tattoos are not for the faint of heart. The nature of permanence is overwhelming for many.”

Will can’t think. The mental image of what comes next is too strong. For one second, his vivid mind _feels_ everything. The buzzing press of needles and Hannibal’s breath warming his skin simultaneously. Under Hannibal’s gloves, something beautiful and elaborate takes shape on Will’s lower back-- the winding curl of bowed antlers, the sloped back of an animal across his own spine, intricate feathers ghosting down the edge of his hip. 

His own desire feels like a sucker punch, robbing him of air. He can’t speak for one long moment. Hannibal is talking, looking at him again. He forces himself back up into reality.

“It’s all right, most people come here without an inkling of what they want,” Hannibal says. He’s not mocking Will outright, but there’s just the right amount of taunting in his tone that Will’s jaw clenches and he reacts without thinking. 

“I have a pretty good idea actually. Of what I want,” Will says, dumping the binders on the counter. “I’m just not sure I want to get it here.” 

Beverly looks at him in surprise. She’s heard him be rude before, but not _that_ rude. 

Hannibal is motionless other than the smallest quirk of his lips. He gestures to the black binders on the desk. “My body of work speaks for itself. I am afraid I can’t be of service beyond that.”

Will pushes his glasses up his nose and stares evenly back at Hannibal. The air between them feels electric, Will feels the charge of it as he breathes out. “Well. Thank you for your time.”

Hannibal’s eyes spark with dark light. “My pleasure.”

“See you, maybe,” Beverly says with a little wave, grabbing a business card. They leave Hannibal’s shop together. 

Outside, the night air is crisp but the lights of H Street, all the bars and restaurants, seem to blur into one long and bright neon strip. They trudge back to the Union Station metro and Bev regales him with some tales from her forensic science classes. It’s only about 10 minutes later, when they’re both sobering up when she prods him on the topic of Hannibal. Will knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. That’s partly why they make such good friends, he thinks, both of them have no compunction in their impulsive, often prodding quest for answers, secrets and deceptions. 

“So, Hannibal Lecter,” she says slyly. “He’s something, huh.”

“What do you know about him?” Will asks because if there’s a story, she knows it. 

“Did his residency at Johns Hopkins. Then he was a surgeon at GW but he gave it up last year to tattoo D.C.’s trendy elite. Midlife crisis, I guess,” she shrugs, rubbing her mittened hands together for warmth. They’re only two blocks from Union Station now. 

“Everyone who has been inked by him says he’s amazing,” she adds. 

“I didn’t find him that interesting.”

“Liar, liar,” Beverly smiles, nudging him in the ribs. “You can’t wait for him to show you the ‘nature of permanence.’ Admit it.”

He looks away, silently conceding her point with a small grin of his own. “Well, what about you? You’re the one who grabbed his card.”

“I grabbed it for you, dumbass. It has his business hours and number on it. I figured you’d want to apologize for your drunken behavior.” She produces the card from her coat pocket and dances it in front of his face. “Plus, I still want a tattoo.”

A little too easily, he plucks the card from her, feeling the expensive creamy paper in his hand before he shoves it into his jean pocket. 

“Gotcha,” she says, grinning.

*~*~*~*~

Will stares at Hannibal Lecter’s business card for a long time when he gets home.

His room is inky dark with blackness but he can’t sleep. His twin bed pokes his body like thorns and pebbles. He can’t stop thinking about the other man’s mouth, his hands, the rolled-up shirt sleeves on taut forearms. Strangely, it’s the thought—the image of Hannibal’s blue latex gloves on his back that gets him hard. He shoves his pants halfway down, arousal seizing him urgently as he spits into his palm and strokes his dick, rough and fast. His eyes are screwed shut. He hears the rattle of the tattoo machine’s motor, the sensuous low murmur of Hannibal’s voice, dark visions set free— 

Then he sees it. The barely-there, watercolor-like image of a black stag taking shape, forever marked on his skin. Will comes with a choked gasp, fingers flexing in his sheets then releasing with the escape of pent up pressure. It feels shockingly amazing. 

Three days later he heads back to Hannibal’s shop.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).


End file.
